In Starships and Cups of Coffee
by Lorata
Summary: Birthdays away from home can be complicated, whether you're an orphaned smuggler who doesn't remember, a princess whose home planet exploded, or a farm boy whose native world used an obscure calendar system. [Birthday giftfic]


The celebration of birthdays and name days and who knows what else is an interesting hodgepodge under the Rebel Alliance. The rebels from Coruscant, whose planetary cycle set the standard for the Galactic Calendar, they've got it easy, at least. Every now and then someone will swan into the commissary with a dubiously-procured jug of terrifying liquor from the last inhabited planet they stopped at and demand that everyone do shots, and it's somewhat of a tradition that whoever's on ground recon try to snag some bottles for the stash whenever they can.

Not all Corellians, mind. Han has no idea when he was born and it doesn't really matter, it's what he's done with his life that's important, not whatever day he got dropped into the world, red-faced and screaming and smeared with gunk. (Chewie would have his hide for that, but you know what pal, just because his kid had fur from the start didn't make the whole process any less weird and slimy.) It's not that uncommon, especially not here, where half the recruits are escaped slaves or runaways from protectorates or whatever, and some of them invent a day because why the hell not, and some of them pretend whenever they want to get away with something and see how long it takes their friends to catch on. For himself, Han doesn't bring it up and nobody asks.

For the rest of them it's a little more complicated. Most grew up converting from their own planetary system to Galactic Standard, or seeing both their native and the standard date displayed on local chronos, but it's different the other way around. It's pretty common to see people suddenly stop, do the math on their fingers and then realize they missed theirs a few Standard months back — now and then there's someone who has the calculation memorized and writes it down every year so they know what day it will fall on. It's kind of precious, really, but Han has already joined a group of political fanatic freedom-fighters and turned down the chance to pay off his debts and live life as a rich, free man, so it's not that hard not to scoff.

(They don't talk about Leia's.

Threepio made that mistake once, strutting up full of self-importance and announcing that according to his calculations, this date in Galactic Standard corresponded with the former Alderaanian festival designated as the princess' day of birth, and did she wish for Threepio to attempt to procure some traditional desserts —

Leia went very white and very still, every line sharpening and turning to ice and steel. Her mouth thinned into a flat, bloodless line, and her eyes — so big, so brown, capable of piercing a hole straight through a man or shrinking him down to an inch in size or filling him from within like the roar and swell of well-tuned engines reverberating in an empty hangar — tensed at the corners even as she refused to blink or lower her head.

She'd looked very old and very young at the same time, fingers digging into the console and the lines of her cheekbones standing out in stark relief. Threepio shuffled closer, asked if the princess would prefer a more lavish celebration —

"Can it, goldenrod," Han snapped, unable to tear himself away from the hunch in Leia's shoulders. He shoved away the urge to wrap his arms around her, pull her small form close against his chest to keep her safe from — what, who even knew, and she'd only wrench herself free like he'd tried to murder her and glare at him with those big brown eyes and make him feel like a complete idiot for bothering. "Go inventory yourself for spare parts or something."

"Well! I never!" Threepio huffed, and R2 whistled something that started low, then swept up high and ended in the electronic version of a raspberry, which Han couldn't translate but got the gist of well enough. That set Threepio to expostulating, and that let Han jerk his chin toward the door and invite Leia to follow him.

Leia said nothing as they took a long, ambling walk through the corridors, and Han didn't try. He still had a lot to learn about women, Leia liked to remind him, but he'd gotten better at not trying to fix things — or at least, not demanding credit afterward. "He meant well," Leia said finally, voice heavy with diplomacy.

"Sure, he always means well," Han said, shoving his hands in his pockets so she wouldn't notice how his fingers kept twitching toward hers. "For a protocol droid, though, Threepio sure has some funny ideas." He glanced at Leia, the hollows under her eyes, the furrows in her forehead. "You know you could have yelled at him. You don't have to pretend to be nice."

That actually got a laugh, sharp and barking, and Han couldn't decide whether he wanted to pump his fist in triumph or check the ventilation for accidental glitterstim aeration to make sure he hadn't hallucinated. "I'll have you know, I'm very nice," Leia said loftily. "To people who aren't smart-mouthed smugglers, anyway."

Han rolled his eyes. "Sure, yeah, whatever you say, Princess, I've seen you in debate. The real reason the Empire shut the Senate down is because the entire galaxy got sick of you ripping strips off their hide."

Leia shot him a glance, for once more curious than offended. "Your point eludes me, Captain."

"My point is you're good, but you ain't nice," Han said. "And that's — fine? If you want to tell someone to go to hell, tell him to go to hell."

"I will take that under advisement," Leia said, but her mouth twisted up at the corner.

And because Han didn't make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs by knowing when to quit, he'd grinned and said something stupid like, "If you want to pay me for my advice I'd accept dinner."

"Han," Leia had said, deliberately, "Go to hell."

It may or may not be one of the greatest days of Han's life.)

He does ask Luke, though, because some days Han swears the kid can't be a day over sixteen and others he has a weird, almost ancient aura hanging over him that sends his gaze faraway and gives Han the shivers when he makes eye contact, like stepping into a puddle and falling deep into a chasm instead.

"I'm not sure," Luke says. He rips the centre out of his roll and eats the fluffy middle before leaving the crusty outer edge. (Han asked him about that too, once, and he said the crust made him too thirsty and he's still not used to having all the water he wants.) "Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? Something like that. I asked Uncle Owen a couple times but he kept giving me different answers. I'm not sure he knew? He and my dad didn't get along very well, I don't think."

That'll teach Han to ask personal questions. He sighs and shakes his head, takes a sip of the terrible Alliance coffee that he swears is cut with engine oil. "So what did you do when the day came around, then?"

"Oh, we don't really celebrate birthdays too much on Tatooine," Luke says. "It's kind of a touchy subject."

Han blinks. "What? I never heard that."

"Well, of course you didn't, you're an offworlder. We don't tell things to everyone." Luke grimaces down at his tray. "It's — well, it's a harsh planet, and there are only so many resources, and humans, we never adapted to the environment, not like other species. We have to keep the population from outgrowing the settlements, otherwise we'd have all died out centuries ago. So, every year your birthday ends in a 5 or a 0 you get put into a lottery with everyone else, and they pull out a few names. Anyone whose name is chosen has to go out into the desert and wait for a krayt dragon. It's an honour, really, but it kind of puts a damper on any celebrations —"

He breaks off in laughter, eyes dancing, when Han throws a carrot at his head. "I can't believe it," Han says, grinning in spite of himself. "You actually tried to snowball me! I mean, you're terrible at this, I don't know how you ever haggled on Tatooine with a face like that, but I like that you tried."

Luke ducks his head, sheepish. "Yeah, well, everybody tries to see if they can fool the kid from the Outer Rim, so I thought I'd throw a little back."

"I'm impressed," Han says, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder. "We'll make a scoundrel of you yet."

Luke grins, but then he turns thoughtful. "It was a few months ago, maybe?" he says, narrowing his eyes in thought and sketching out numbers with his fingers. Some of the others might make fun of the dumb farm boy, but Han has seen him calculate the volume of containers and estimate the amount of water just by looking at it. "Yeah, huh, I guess it would've been around when Threepio made Leia sad. I didn't think about it at the time. Tattooine is far away enough from the Core that no one ever bothered with Galactic Standard."

"Leia told you about that?" Han asks, surprised. He hates himself a little for the ugly snarl of jealousy that tangles in his chest. Hates himself a lot for being unable to pretend it's anything else.

"Well, sort of. I caught her throwing crates at the wall and then stacking them back up after." Luke shrugs one shoulder, face flushed pink and pleased and yeah, see, this is why he needs to practice lying. "It's okay, we talked for a while and she stopped being sad."

"Great," Han says, suddenly nettled. "That's great. Well c'mon kid, you're eighteen-nineteen-twenty, that's old enough to drink somewhere. Let's find one of those caches and get you something to celebrate."

"We can pretend it's your birthday," Luke says, and Han raises an eyebrow. "What? I know you don't have one, Chewie told me."

Of course he did. Han lets out an exaggerated sigh and makes a note to dump some floral perfume in his best friend's shampoo. But Luke has his sincere face on and Han has not had enough alcohol in his life to deal with that, and so he rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet. "Sure," he says. It's a big galaxy, and there are weirder things than cribbing drinks from under the cooling pipes in order to celebrate his imaginary day of birth. "Why not."


End file.
